


Dysfunctional Families

by lilsmartass



Series: Friends Are The Family You Choose For Yourself [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Clint should really do his paperwork on time, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, I am not kidding when I say Phil's family sucks, I do not see this as an abuse fic, Kidfic, M/M, Mini Phil has an awkward crush on Steve and Clint is sad about it, Phil's family kind of suck, but your mileage may vary, deaged, deaged!Phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:38:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilsmartass/pseuds/lilsmartass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: A confrontation with AIM leaves Coulson twelve years old. Unfortunately, Clint hasn’t filled out the paperwork to be allowed to take him back to Avengers tower, and since Phil’s family now know all about his work, Fury has no option but to send Coulson back to his parents until they work out how to reverse the damage. Sequel to Cover Story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: PG-13  
> Disclaimer: Not mine unfortunately, though considering what I put them through, probably for the best.  
> Warning/Spoilers: Angst, hurt/comfort, some extremely minor violence and threats from a bad guy we all love to hate in later chapters, non graphic sexuality of a minor, depending on how you perceive things, possible emotional abuse  
> Genre: angst, hurt/comfort, slash of the Clint/Coulson flavour – established relationship, friendship, kidfic, deaged Coulson

** Dysfunctional Families  
**

“-so then _I_ said-”

There’s a very (very) slight noise over the comms. One that speaks volumes more about Phil’s frustration than the inscrutable agent would have liked. “Hawkeye, do actually know what radio silence means?”

Clint smiles to himself and checks his watch, seventeen minutes. It’s not a record, but it’s nothing to be ashamed of either. “I’m pretty sure it means you shouldn’t be using the comms, sir,” he says blandly.

There’s another choked noise of frustration and a muted snort, which can only mean Natasha has hacked into their private line. Again.

Clint goes silent, mind racing, trying to think of everything he’s done and said over this line and just how bad that security breach really is. He doesn’t actually care of course, he’s got more than a slight exhibitionist streak, but Phil will be furious and he hates it when Phil is pissed at him. Before he can think of anything to say to mitigate the damage however, there’s a crackle on the main Avengers line and Steve’s low voice says, “We’ve got hostiles on the move.”

“Hold your position,” Phil says, attention instantly diverted. Clint feels a low, warm buzz of familiar, well-worn lust. He loves it when Phil is perfectly calm and commanding. “Draw them out. I want to be able to see what we’re dealing with before we engage. Intel says they’ve been reverse engineering the science behind Loki’s last…” there’s a small, but definite pause, “prank,” Phil finishes at last. “We don’t want to bite off more than we can chew.”

“Roger that,” Steve says.

Clint readies himself, feeling his body sink into the calm and stillness he always feels when the target is near. Down below him, easily visible over the lip of the half crumbled wall behind which he is lying, he can easily make out the targets. Without their usual ridiculous AIM issue beekeeping get-up, they look like four ordinary men. Clint’s eyes sweep over them, noting what he can out of habit. He identifies the leader, obvious with all the heads angled in his direction, easily enough.

Slowly, too slowly to draw attention to the movement, Clint nocks an arrow and pulls back the string. It isn’t taut enough to strain his muscles. “I have the shot, sir,” he says, voice low by habit, even though there’s no chance they can hear him.

“Wait for my word, Hawkeye,” Phil says, voice just as low. “Widow?”

Natasha makes a small affirmative noise. Clint can see her, mere feet away from their targets, and all but hidden in the shadow of a tall building unless someone looked right at her.

“How many of them do you see?”

“Four,” she breathes.

“Four,” Clint confirms without waiting to be asked.

There’s another silence. Clint can picture the expression on Phil’s face right now, the tiny furrow that will have appeared between his eyes as he correlates everything he knows and decides on the best of his pre-considered ideas. “All right,” he says after a moment, and Clint knows he isn’t imagining the satisfaction in his tone. “Take them down. Alive if possible. SHIELD wants them for questioning.”

He’s barely finished speaking before Clint is letting his arrow fly. It’s one of the tranquilising arrows he usually uses for the Hulk but with a dosage packet that won’t be deadly to a regular human. It imbeds itself in the leader’s shoulder and there’s a beat where the others just stare at the arrow suddenly blossoming out of the man’s jacket, clearly uncomprehending. Then Natasha comes whirling out of the shadows. She almost looks like she’s dancing, so graceful are her movements, but her spinning kicks are lethal, pulled only enough to leave the men unconscious and not dead.

They barely need Steve, who comes barrelling out of his own hiding place, shield in hand, just in time to stop the one Natasha is toying with from escaping with a hard knock to the head. Natasha raises an eyebrow at Steve which expresses, more clearly than words ever could, how disappointed she is at having her fun cut short.

Clint laughs and rappels down from the building in easy movements. He almost wishes they had brought Banner and Stark. They are – without doubt – the two _worst people ever_ on covert ops, and he says that knowing full well how awful he is, and that his team leader is literally, and unsubtly, dressed like the flag. But this mission had been easy, and fun, and the only thing missing is the rest of his team.

“So, ice cream?” he asks, nonchalantly, as he drops to one knee to begin securing their targets for transport.

Natasha drops to help him. “Real food, Barton. I’m hungry.”

Clint smirks and leans over to roll the leader onto his back to search his pockets for anything that might be used to affect an escape. “I didn’t think these morons put up enough of a fight for you to work up an appet-” he starts, then freezes. He takes the leader’s jaw in one hand, turning it one way and then another.

“What?” Natasha is looking at him anxiously, and at her tone, Steve turns from where he is scanning for other hostiles to look at them.

“This,” Clint says slowly, “This isn’t the same man we were shown in the briefing.”

“What?” It’s Steve who makes the incredulous demand this time.

“He looks similar…but not…the man we were shown didn’t have this scar here,” he touches a mark on the throat. “And his face was thinner.” Clint furrows his brow, mind racing. “Come on,” he snaps at Steve, bouncing to his feet, and pulling Natasha up by the upper arm in the same move. “These people were just bait. We have to-” and at that moment, there’s an explosion which rocks the street.

Clint staggers back into Steve, hacking dust out of his lungs. He looks around, blankly, but there’s not even any structural damage to the surroundings, whatever that was, it was no more than concussive force and noise. The Avengers aren’t the target here. He coughs again, spits, and finally clears his throat enough to choke out, “Coulson, this whole thing’s a trap. Get out of there.”

There’s no response. Clint taps at his earpiece and tries again. Beside him Natasha is doing the same. There’s nothing.

Without hesitation, the three set off at a run for the SHIELD van. “Coulson?” Clint demands into the comm again, even know it’s useless, cold panic taking hold of his heart. Without missing a stride he thumbs his radio and slips over onto their private channel. “Dammit, Phil. Answer me.”

That there is no response to the plea frightens him more than any enemy ever has.

Outside the van, the junior agent assigned as Coulson’s administrative assistant is in an unmoving heap on the ground. Clint vaults over the prone body without stopping, vaguely aware of Steve sliding to his knees besides the figure. His training takes over then and he doesn’t actually race blindly into the van, hesitating instead at the door and drawing the firearm he has for backup. He’s aware of Natasha behind him, readying her own weapon, and with no further debate, they enter together, Clint going high and Natasha low.

The van is dark, all the monitors shut down or outright smashed. There’s blood on the chair in front of them and Clint’s breath hitches in his throat. His eyes darken in anger that only coils tighter when it becomes obvious there is no outlet for it. There’s nothing here.

“Phil?” he calls softly into the gloom, even though he can see that the slender body of his lover isn’t there.

Against all logic, there’s a movement from the corner, and Clint and Natasha both start with surprise, levelling their guns.

A figure, much shorter than they had been expecting, is climbing to its feet. It seems to be wearing nothing but a too long tank top and the remains of a jacket Clint would recognise anywhere, even in this poor lighting.

“Where…where am I?” the figure asks, in a tremulous voice that’s obviously fighting for composure. It’s a kid.

Clint lowers his weapon with a sideways glance at Natasha. She’s got a much stronger stomach for holding a piece on a child. She moves back and sideways, and Clint makes sure not to block her shot should it become necessary as he picks his way warily towards the kid.

Up close, he can see it’s a boy, maybe thirteen or so. He doesn’t relax though, he’s seen a lot of weird things since becoming an Avenger, and it’s not impossible that this boy is responsible for the devastation here. Just because he’s small doesn’t mean he isn’t a threat, look at Natasha.

When he gets closer still though, he finds uneasy recognition tugging at him as he takes in the boy’s angular face and rigid posture. He’s breathing heavily and there’s a slight shaking in hands that are clutching the jacket around him. He’s obviously terrified, but he still looks up, meeting Clint’s eyes squarely, and demanding, “Where am I?” again, in a voice that rises with an edge of hysteria but is still determined.

It’s not the words that make Clint’s breath catch though. It’s the eyes, slate grey and more familiar to him than his own. “Phil?” he whispers, and feels more than sees Natasha’s grip on her own gun falter for a second before she recovers herself.

The boy’s eyes go wide with fear and he takes a stumbling step back, almost falling over the pair of discarded suit pants he’s standing on, and flushing slightly when his grip on the jacket wavers and it gapes momentarily, showing that he isn’t wearing any underclothes. “How do you know my name?”

Clint swallows and gapes uselessly. His brain feels like it’s flatlining just as surely as the monitors lining the walls and he can think of literally nothing to say. “Fuck,” he breathes at last.

Phil raises an eyebrow and it’s such a familiar expression that Clint feels a bubble of laughter welling up within him. “Eloquent,” the teenager says, “but it doesn’t answer my questions.”

Natasha makes a noise that could mean anything. “He sounds like Phil,” she acknowledges.

Clint looks at her, wide eyed. “He’s…he’s about four.”

The boy draws himself up, all prickly offended teenage dignity. “I’m almost thirteen.”

“Right,” Clint agrees faintly. How is this his life again? “Well…Phil…Can you…”

There’s a clang of metal on metal as Steve clambers into the van, shield hitting the side the way it always does because he always seems to forget how broad his shoulders are and fails to compensate. “Agent Dawkins is alive. He says they were attacked, that Agent Coulson tried to subdue whoever it was, but was knocked to the floor. They were looking for something in the computer systems.” Report given, he glances around, and seeing no sign of Coulson’s form, locks eyes with Natasha to ask, “How is-?”

Natasha gestures with her gun, which she’s still gripping, but no longer has it aimed at anything. “See for yourself.”

It takes a moment for Steve’s eyes to adjust to gloom, but when he does, he does a double take, jaw actually dropping. “Agent…Coulson?” he asks after a long pause.

There’s no answer, and Clint looks back to the boy to find that he looks every bit as shocked as Steve, eyes travelling over Steve’s uniform and shield with an unmistakable awe. Without thinking, Clint leans over and presses a finger under Phil’s jaw to push his mouth closed, “You’re catching flies,” he teases.

Phil flushes instantly, a deep scarlet that kind of fascinates Clint because he’s never seen anything like it on Coulson’s skin. His hands tighten in the jacket and he pulls it tighter around him, blush darkening even further as he watches Steve’s eyes travel over his bare legs.

Steve blinks and takes a deep steadying breath. It’s a mark of how used they all are to dealing with the decidedly odd that his voice is almost totally calm as he says, “I’m going to go report to SHIELD. And call Tony. If anyone can figure out what they did it’ll be him.”

Clint isn’t capable of anything resembling that level of coherence. He settles for nodding, wide-eyed gaze still fixed on Phil.

“Was that…” Phil asks when he’s gone, “was that…Captain America?” his voice rises in a squeak and he colours again just from saying the name.

Clint nods again.

“That’s…that’s _awesome_ ,” the boy says, breathy and stuttering in a way Phil never is.

Clint’s stomach ties itself in knots. He disagrees.

*

“But, sir…” Clint protests. Again. At this point he knows Fury isn’t going to change his mind. He’s just protesting because he actually doesn’t know how to back down. But there’s also a very real sense of dread, curling through him, sick and cold. This can’t be happening.

Fury glares at him. He looks murderous and had done ever since he’d been appraised of the situation. Clint supposes that having your one good eye turned into an _infant_ will do that to you, even if he is languishing in hysterical giggling land because if he allows the true horror of this to register at all, he may simply crawl into one of the vents and never stop crying. “My hands are tied, Barton.” He spreads his hand and there’s a twitch on his face that wishful thinking might call sympathy. “SHIELD is under much greater scrutiny now, the Avengers particularly. I can’t bend the rules for you on this.”

“But you _know_ Phil would agree with me,” Clint argues, moderating his tone only slightly to add, “sir.”

“That does not change the fact that you have not completed and signed the paperwork allowing you to care for him if he incapacitated due to injury, magic or other, nor that any paperwork would need his counter signature – given while he is _not a minor,_ Barton – to be processed. That means we have to look at his last set of valid documents. He has to go home.”

“He _cannot_ have meant this. His family didn’t even know what he did until last month! What if this had happened before then?”

Fury sighs. “I’m sorry, Barton.”

Clint grits his teeth and tries to ignore the pervading sense of guilt. How many times had Phil put that damn form in front of him, only for him to ignore it? “Sir…” he starts, but the dark look in Fury’s eyes makes him reconsider, even though the rage and frustration is pounding through his head. “Sir…may I request leave? And accompany him?”

Fury stares at him, evaluating his thoughts and finding them all lacking. Clint finds himself shuffling his feet like a little boy. “Alright,” the Director allows, grudgingly. “Unless the world is in immanent danger of ending you can accompany him. Assuming his family allow it.”

Clint gives a feral grin. They’ll allow it. He is not above using Tony’s money to see to that if he has to, and failing that, an arrow through the eye of anyone who tries to come between him and Phil will work just as well.

Fury shakes his head. “Keep in radio contact, Barton. I’ll keep you updated on our next move.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: A confrontation with AIM leaves Coulson twelve years old. Unfortunately, Clint hasn’t filled out the paperwork to be allowed to take him back to Avengers tower, and since Phil’s family now know all about his work, Fury has no option but to send Coulson back to his parents until they work out how to reverse the damage. Sequel to Cover Story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: PG-13  
> Disclaimer: Not mine unfortunately, though considering what I put them through, probably for the best.  
> Warning/Spoilers: Angst, hurt/comfort, some extremely minor violence and threats from a bad guy we all love to hate in later chapters, non graphic sexuality of a minor, depending on how you perceive things and your own personal triggers, possible emotional abuse  
> Genre: angst, hurt/comfort, slash of the Clint/Coulson flavour – established relationship, friendship, kidfic, deaged Coulson

**Dysfunctional Families**

The drive is silent. Not entirely unlike the lasttime, Clint had made this trip, but worse somehow. He keeps his hands on the wheel, aware that his knuckles are white as he grips tight with tension. Phil sits in the back, strapped in behind Clint and reading through the stack of Captain America comics Tony had given him. He hasn’t said anything beyond yes or no in response to direct questions and Clint feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle as he seriously fights the impulse to scream. His is so far out of his realm of experience. He’s useless with kids.

Clint has a good memory though, and despite the fact that Phil was at the wheel last time, he has no problem navigating back to the Coulson house. He’s barely stopped outside the house before Phil has the door open, spilling from the backseat. Clint stamps on the brake and curses emphatically. Phil freezes, eyes wide, and Clint instantly feels guilty. He didn’t mean to frighten him, he was just assaulted by images of Phil crushed under his own car.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean…” he mumbles. “Just be careful, yeah?”

The kid looks at him like he’s just grown an extra head, but says, “Yeah, sure.”

And by then, the door is opening, Julie and Mike both making their way out of the house. It’s Clint who freezes this time, muscles tensing uneasily. He masks his discomfort by turning away, shutting and locking the car before making his way to the trunk for his go-bag and the duffle he’d packed for Phil. He’s never gotten along with Phil’s brother, and though the rest of the family had apologised for underestimating Phil all these years, Mike had been absent by the time Phil and Clint got back.

At this age, Phil obviously doesn’t share his misgivings. Someone at SHIELD – and Clint will forever regret that it wasn’t him, but he’d been in the ductwork, quietly hyperventilating – has explained the situation to Phil and, he seems to have taken it in stride. But he has no self-consciousness about launching himself at his mother, nearly taking her off her feet and yammering about his day. Clint can barely parse individual words and his head starts to pound, half stress of the day, and half the prickle of wrongwrongwrong at the base of his skull. The Avengers are all damaged in various ways and Clint sometimes forgets that Phil had a basically normal upbringing, his reticence was learned as an agent, not beaten into him as a child. He just can’t reconcile this avid child with Phil’s usual calm control. Not to mention his hurt feelings over the fact that Phil has barely said two words to him.

“Hey, Pip,” Mike says, when he can get a word in edgeways.

Clint tenses, but again, at this age Phil doesn’t even notice, taking the name as his due. “Wow. You got really tall, Mike? When I’m big, like usual, who’s the tallest of us?”

Mike smiles. “Me. You stayed a shrimp.”

The indignation on Phil’s face as he looks up at his brother would make Clint laugh under other circumstances. “Did not!”

Mike laughs again, and easily deflects the preteen’s attempt to kick him in the knee. Clint wants to offer to show him how to kick properly, but the words get lost somewhere between his brain and his tongue. He’s unutterably grateful he’s got his hands full of bags giving him something to grip, but he still feels uneasy, standing pointlessly and waiting.

It’s Julie who eventually turns to him. She looks shellshocked, but she’s holding it together as well as can be expected. “Hello, Clint, dear. How are you?”

Clint mumbles something in the affirmative, and he must be pretty convincing because Julie’s wide-eyed look increases.

“You’re very calm. Does this happen often?” She bites out, voice filled with the quiet fury that Phil gets when Clint’s done something dangerous and he flinches automatically.

“This?” Clint makes a choked noise like a dying bird. “No. I’ve never seen anything like this. But…general weirdness? Yeah, that follows the Avengers around.”

“Right,” Julie agrees. She looks troubled. That’s fine, Clint feels troubled. She looks down at Phil, happily babbling about having met Captain America, for another long moment and then pulls herself together. “Will you show Clint where the spare room is, please, Pip? And then you can put your things away in your own room. I’ll go and get dinner started.”

Phil half turns, eying Clint sideways with something like dismay. “Is he staying then?” he asks his mom.

Clint doesn’t flinch this time, but it’s a close thing.

Julie looks at him helplessly, and Clint abruptly realises that, far from telling Phil off for being rude, she doesn’t know how to feel about keeping her son’s partner in the house when said son is far below the legal age of consent. “I…Yes,” Clint finally answers Phil in a grating voice that betrays far more than he is comfortable with. “Someone needs to be here to talk to SHIELD when they finally figure out a way to make you your normal age again.”

Phil looks distinctly unimpressed. It’s the first familiar look Clint’s seen on his face. “Can’t Captain America stay with me?”

Clint’s lips twitch, though he’s not sure if it’s a smile or a scream he’s supressing. “Steve’s kind of busy. With you out of action he’s got to do your job as well as his.”

Phil blinks, then visibly gapes, turning to Mike and his mom instinctively for confirmation as he says, “I’m on a team with _Captain America_?”

“Not really, Squirt,” Mike answers, his bright smile coming nowhere near his eyes. “You’re their manager…but it’s the rock stars everyone remembers.”

Phil doesn’t look even the slightest bit disappointed. “I’m the _manager_ of _Captain America’s_ team?” he squeaks, in that way that all teenaged boys find embarrassing. It doesn’t even slow Phil down, too intent on finding out the answer to his question, than in how he sounds asking it.

The wrongwrongwrong headache is coming back, but Clint can’t entirely quell the smile. Phil is adorable like this. “You’re our handler.”

Phil turns to look at him. “You’re on Captain America’s team too?”  

Clint chooses to believe that the incredulous tone is because Phil’s suddenly, and unexpectedly, found himself surrounded by superheroes, not because he doesn’t believe Clint could ever stand with his idol. “…Yeah. We’re the Avengers. What did they tell you? When you had that medical check-up?”

“That I’m usually older, but that a group of scientists did something to me and that I’ve shrunk down. But I thought…you’d just…found me.” His voice trails off.

Despite what they say about him, Clint does actually understand about procedure and security. Sometimes he even accepts it, which is more than can be said for Stark. But he swears, this is the last time Phil ever goes to SHIELD medical without at least one of them there to look out for him, because that briefing…that was pathetic.

“No. You were…you were there with us. Do you know what a handler is?”

“Like…a dog handler?”

Clint does quirk a smile at that. “Well…yeah. You’re the one holding our leashes.”

Phil’s eyes are as wide as saucers now. “I…tell you which bad guys to go after?” he guesses.

“Yeah,” Clint smiles warmly, wondering why it had seemed so hard to talk to Phil before. This is actually kind of fun, and now he knows what amazed-Phil looks like, he’s going to try even harder to see that look on his face when he goes back to normal. “And you’re usually on missions with us. You tell us when to start fighting, when to shoot, and which bad guys to take out first.”

“Wow…” Phil breathes. He spins back around. “Did you hear that, Mike? Pretty cool, huh?”

Clint’s look dares Mike to contradict the excited statement. “I guess.”

Julie is looking even more troubled. “I didn’t realise you were actually at the Avenger’s battles, Pip. I thought you were in…in an office or something.” She suddenly realises that her juvenile son won’t be able to answer that, and turns her gaze to Clint instead. “It sounds dangerous.”

“None of us would let anything happen to him,” Clint says, quick and defensive.

Mike snorts, and Julie’s expression says all too clearly what she thinks of that statement. Clint colours. It’s true, and anyone who knows anything about the Avengers knows it’s true, but he can’t deny that they failed in their duty this time around.

“It’ll be fine, mom,” Phil is already saying, some of his usual confidence infusing his gawky limbs. “I have Captain America to look after me.”

Julie hums her uncertainty, but pulls herself together. “Well…we’ll see. Come on then, bedrooms.”

Clint follows. He vaguely remembers where the spare room is, having habitually taken note of where everyone was sleeping the last time he was here. He drops his stuff as quickly as possible, and pads down the hall just a couple of paces behind Phil. He wants to see his face when he catches sight of his room.

It’s just as priceless as Clint knew it would be. Phil’s jaw literally drops. “Is this…is this all mine?” he asks softly, looking almost afraid to touch anything.

“I guess. You’re a pretty big fan. And you didn’t say that anything wasn’t yours the last time we were here.”

Phil looks at him sharply. “You’ve been here before?”

“Yeah. You’re my-” Clint doesn’t know how to finish that. He’s never had to define what Phil is to him. Phil’s always just known. He settles for saying, “You’re my friend,” lamely.

“Oh, cool. So do we go to conventions together, or..?”

Clint barely hears him. His eyes are drawn irrepressibly to the printed Captain America bed sheets and his face heats as he remembers the last time he saw those. “Do we…” Clint actually has gone to conventions with Phil, because he loves him, nerdiness included, but that’s not what made them close by any stretch of the imagination. “I…We work together.”

“So we’re not proper friends then?”

It’s like a knife to Clint’s stomach, but he doesn’t know what else he can say. He can’t explain to this _child_ everything he and Phil have gone through together, and he doesn’t even want to. It’s kind of endearing seeing Phil like this, innocent and guileless. But without it, with no concept – no memory and too young and naïve to even be able to extrapolate – of how often Clint has held Phil’s blood inside him with strips of his own shirt, or failing that his own palms, how often Phil’s voice in his ear has been the only thing keeping him sane and grounded while he was in sniper’s nests in the worst of conditions, or strung up by enemies waiting for rescue…This boy cannot even contemplate why Clint considers him his everything.

It’s like being in free fall, but this time with no Thor or Iron Man to swoop in and catch him. He’s never looked into Phil’s eyes and seen nothing there for him. Even before they were what they are now (which had taken an embarrassingly long time and more than one threat from Natasha because Clint had been terrified to admit his feelings and risk losing Phil’s friendship, and Phil would never dream of asking an asset for sex) there had always been something. Right for that moment on a rooftop in Geneva, when Phil had offered Clint a hand, a way out of the mess he’d dug himself into and a chance at redemption, Phil has always seen more to him than even Clint believes is actually there. The blank lack of recognition is disquieting.

“We are. We’ve been doing missions together for nearly ten years. You trust me.”

Phil gives him the assessing look that always makes Clint quail. Phil knows it too. He usually uses it to make Clint confess to escalating his and Stark’s prank wars past acceptable parameters. “Why?”

“I’ve saved your life. And you’ve saved mine. You just…believe in me.” The words sound hollow and taste like rejection. There is no way words – especially in Clint’s inexpert hands – can explain what they are to each other, and what Phil’s faith means to Clint.

The boy nods, but it’s obvious that he doesn’t understand. Then suddenly he seems to realise he’s still standing in the entrance to his room, door wide open. He glances quickly down the hallway, before giving Clint a small, rueful smile. “I bet Mike really thinks I’m a nerd now.”

“You work with a group of superheroes. There’s no way that’s anything but cool, Phil,” Clint reassures him.

Phil smiles again, and Clint’s breath catches. He’s missed that smile, that unrestrained emotion that’s for him alone. He suspects this Phil gives it more freely, but it’s still a painful reminder of what he’s missing.

“I’m going to go unpack,” he says, before he embarrasses himself. Phil nods, and Clint can’t restrain his own grin. He knows Phil wants to have a proper explore of the room and see what collectables he has amassed. “If you want anything…” he offers awkwardly.

“Sure,” Phil agrees, but doesn’t reciprocate.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: A confrontation with AIM leaves Coulson twelve years old. Unfortunately, Clint hasn’t filled out the paperwork to be allowed to take him back to Avengers tower, and since Phil’s family now know all about his work, Fury has no option but to send Coulson back to his parents until they work out how to reverse the damage. Sequel to Cover Story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: PG-13  
> Disclaimer: Not mine unfortunately, though considering what I put them through, probably for the best.  
> Warning/Spoilers: Angst, hurt/comfort, some extremely minor violence and threats from a bad guy we all love to hate in later chapters, non graphic sexuality of a minor, depending on how you perceive things and your own personal triggers, possible emotional abuse  
> Genre: angst, hurt/comfort, slash of the Clint/Coulson flavour – established relationship, friendship, kidfic, deaged Coulson

**Dysfunctional Families**

 

Clint rings in the second the door is shut behind him. “What have you got for me, Banner?”

Bruce sounds calm, but then, that’s nothing unusual. “Well, he’s definitely been de-aged.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Wow. Really? I’m so glad we have the finest minds on the planet working on this.”

Bruce snorts. Clint doesn’t much care if it’s laughter or annoyance. “No, I mean, this is physically _our_ Coulson, just younger. Our Coulson isn’t lost in the 70s with a family that expect him to be three and a half decades younger.”

Clint leans back against the door. In some ways that’s good news. He’s unutterably pleased that there isn’t a version of Phil lost out there, without any backup and no one at his six. On the other hand, switching people back is, in Clint’s experience, easier than reversing the crazy-pants science AIM revel in. “So what does that mean?” he asks.

“We need to find an antidote.” Clint doesn’t answer, and Bruce is quick to reassure. “We’ll find something, Clint, don’t worry. Tony and I are working on it, and we’re consulting with Pym, Jane Foster, McCoy and Richards and just about everyone else in the scientific community. And SHIELD would fall to rack and ruin without Coulson, you know that. Fury’s given us full access to SHIELD’s resources-”

“Which aren’t as good as mine!” Tony shouts from somewhere in the background.

“Which aren’t as good as Tony’s,” Bruce agrees in a long suffering tone, “but it’s a nice thought, and it gives us more space so we can run several theories at once. We’ll fix it, okay?”

Clint gives a weak laugh. “It’ll be fine. Go team.” He can all but _feel_ Bruce’s sympathy. It’s giving him hives.      

“We’ll get him back,” Bruce reassures him again.

“I know!” And, God, Clint hopes he doesn’t sound as defensive as he feels. He has faith in Bruce and Tony, he does, but the niggling what if at the base of his skull is making him edgy and uneasy. “Just…”

“As quickly as possible,” Bruce promises without making him say it. Clint feels a brief surge of affection for him.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

“It’s fine.” Bruce gives a short laugh. “God knows, we all need Coulson. He’s the only one who has any chance of getting Tony to hand in his paperwork, and if he _doesn’t_ then we _all_ have to sit through Hill’s lecture on responsibility.”

Clint laughs again, and then the scuffling sound of shoes in the hallway catches his attention. “Got to go.”

Bruce’s voice is calm and understanding. “Take care of him.”

“Always,” Clint answers, and means it.

He ends the call and inches his door open, habit making him wary. It’s Mike.

“Mom says food’s ready,” the man is saying, barely looking into Phil’s room.

Phil doesn’t appear to even hear him. “Hey, Mike. Have you seen all this cool stuff I have now? Have I been collecting all these years?”

There’s a snort of laughter and it makes the hairs on the back of Clint’s neck prickle. He knows that sound, it’s followed him all his life: derision and mockery. “Yeah, you stay a geek forever, what does that say about you?”

Clint’s halfway through reaching for his bow, blind anger whiting out the world, when he hears Phil’s voice. Higher pitched than usual, but closer to his normal tones. “I work with the Avengers. I know Captain America. And Clint says he’s my friend. And _you’re_ just a boring old doctor.”

Clint can’t help a smirk at that. He’s wanted to say that to Mike on Phil’s behalf since the first moment he met him.

He sees from the sudden tension in Mike’s shoulders that he doesn’t think it’s funny. “At least I earned my position. You got where you are by following Captain America around and eventually they hired you just to make you stop begging them for autographs and photos like some kind of pathetic little puppy. You’re just their handmaiden, and the only reason Clint says he likes you, is because he feels _sorry_ for you. No one likes you, Pip.”

On second thoughts, his bow is too good for this bastard. No, Clint’s going to show him some of the interrogation tricks Natasha taught him. And he’s going to take his time. He allows his footfalls to sound loudly as he steps into the hall, and although his words are for Phil, his cold gaze doesn’t leave Mike’s face. “Did I hear the magic word food?”

Mike flinches in the face of his glare, but he has the same steel in him that Phil does, and doesn’t back up so much as an inch. “Yeah. It’s ready downstairs.”

Phil looks between them uncertainly, before deciding that retreat is the better part of valour and darting, quicksilver fast between them, and heading down the stairs. Clint hasn’t so moved. “A word,” he jerks his head back to indicate the spare room, his words not a request so much as a demand.

Mike’s tongue flicks out to wet his lips. “You realise he’s gone to tattle on us, right? That’s always been Pip’s first line of defence. But then…you probably know that.”

Clint can barely think through the pounding of blood in his ears. Phil is _always_ tattling on them: to Fury when they come up with some of their more insane plans, to medical when they’re injured, to Steve when anniversaries and bad months are coming around. It’s a long established in-joke amongst the Avengers. But he’s always kept his silence when it counts, and more than once he’s gone to the mat for them, _defending_ their insane plans, or their right to be somewhere they felt safe to heal, or the fact that they’ve all got horrible traumas in their past, and are entitled to being uncommunicative sons of bitches at certain times of year. “Inside,” Clint growls.

Mike goes, and it takes all of Clint’s self-control not to shove him back against the wall, but Mike’s exactly the type who will press charges, and Clint can keep himself in check when the price for not doing so is being separated from Phil when Phil’s at his most vulnerable.

“What?” Mike hasn’t shut the door and he keeps himself framed in it.

Clint admires his instincts and his obvious desire for a quick escape route. It won’t help him. If Clint wanted to hurt him, he’d be a bloody mess on the carpet right now. He forces himself to something resembling calm. “I thought you’d be above tormenting a twelve year old.”

Mike’s scowl deepens. “That was a private conversation. And a private joke.”

Clint hisses and takes a step forward. He was right, Mike does have good instincts. He backs up a step. “It didn’t sound very funny.”

Mike recovers some of his bravado and smirks. “I wouldn’t expect you to get it.”

“Tell you what,” Clint says with an easy grin. “You just don’t make jokes like that so that we can all be sure there are no misunderstandings.”

“You can’t tell me what to do in my own home,” Mike blusters.

“Tell Phil that we don’t want him again, that _I_ don’t want him again, and you’ll find out just why his team is called the _Avengers_. In my experience, having the Black Widow pissed at you is painful, but you might worry more about the charges of professional malpractice Tony Stark can have added to your professional history. Do we understand one another?”

Mike’s lip curls. “Crystal.”

“Then we should go downstairs, your mom is waiting.” He gestures extravagantly for Mike to precede him, making sure to make the other thinks he’s being mocked as opposed to the fact that Clint just doesn’t want Mike behind him.

*

Dinner turns out to be nearly as awkward as the last time he was here, which is pretty impressive actually since last time was more or less the definition of awkward and Clint says that with all the memories of the first six months of Natasha’s time at SHIELD in his head.

Mike glares at him from across the table, radiating petulant anger, and Phil talks to almost no one but Clint. That would normally be fine, Clint revels in Phil’s attentions, whether he’s pint sized or not, but Phil also talks – unendingly – about Captain America and “The actual, proper superheroes,” on the Avengers, and Clint feels like his stomach is eating itself. He catches Mike’s eye and forces himself to ignore the malicious smirk on Mike’s face.

Clint looks away and makes himself think about how Phil doesn’t mean it. He thinks about the time they’d been sent to infiltrate Hydra. Unfortunately, Clint had worked for the leader of the cell back in his mercenary days, so he’d have been made instantly. Instead, they’d had Phil bring him in as a prisoner and claim to want to defect. Clint had spent the better part of an hour lying coiled and bound on the floor listening to Phil detail exactly why Hawkeye’s insubordination had been the thing that pushed him over the edge and how he couldn’t wait to give him what was coming to him. The infiltration had been successful, and they’d gotten the information they needed, but that had been the single worst hour of Clint’s life, which is saying something.

This, he tells himself, is like that. Fake. This Phil doesn’t mean his words. He has no idea of what Clint is capable of, no idea that he keeps up with the superpowered ones with nothing to help him – which is a fucking impressive achievement actually, and one that Clint is proud of – that this Phil is just so young that of _course_ demi god powers and suits of invincible fucking armour seem cool. It doesn’t really help.

And even that would be bearable, Clint would move worlds to give Phil what he needs, a bit of uncomfortable dinner conversation is nothing, if not for the fact that Julie has decided to use Phil’s unexpected second chance at childhood to try and convince him that SHIELD is too dangerous and to do something else. It’s a particularly bile inducing flavour of betrayal that, even amidst his fanboy gushing, Phil seems to be letting her. His mouth pulls down at the corners when she points out that this isn’t like video games and comic books, that in real life, people get hurt and killed, but he doesn’t contradict her. He goes white when she tells him about the open heart surgery he’d had after Loki and only years of training keeps Clint from reacting. Phil’s family had been told that was a car accident, he hadn’t realised that he’d since told them the truth.

But maybe, he muses, watching Phil’s eyes cut to Mike with none of his usual subtlety, he should have. Phil hides it well, but he’s always wanted his family’s approval. He’d never have broken his cover story himself, but, disclosed through no fault of his own, of course he’d want to brag a little, to make up for the decades he’d missed. Clint doesn’t blame him, he’d seen only a little of what the Coulsons had put him through, and it had been more than enough to make Clint want to tell them every classified detail he knew just so they’d see how badass Phil really was.

Only Martin, seated at the head of the table and watching Phil inscrutably doesn’t seem to have an opinion, and when at last the plates are empty and dinner over, he sends Phil to help his mother with the dishes and calls Clint to his side.

Almost despite himself, Clint feels calmer standing there, no longer listening to Phil prattle about the others. Martin both looks like him and radiates Phil’s usual stillness and assurance. It’s soothing. “Yes, sir?” he finds himself asking out of habit, senses half trained on the other room instinctively, but focussed in a way few but Phil command of him.

Martin doesn’t stand, raising his chin slightly to catch Clint’s eyes and looking at him with Phil’s familiar piercing gaze. “Julie can’t stand the idea of her baby being hurt,” he says without preamble, “You don’t have kids, you can’t understand but…”

He trails off and Clint nods. No, he doesn’t have kids, but there are people in his life that he dreads seeing harmed in even the smallest way. It’s just his good fortune that they can defend themselves.

“How much danger is he in, really? Is he just administrative or..?”

Clint can’t help it. He bristles. “Phil’s the best agent I’ve ever worked with.”

Martin’s lips tilt – the mocking smile Phil wears when interrogating someone who speaks purely in “I’ll never tell you anything,” clichés. “You have to say that.”

Clint’s lips tighten and his fingers clench. He hates this house. “No. Phil was my partner and handler for years before he was anything else. Our job is dangerous, of course it is, but he’s…the best. And I would do _anything_ before I let harm come to him.”

Martin doesn’t look impressed at the declaration. He’s still seated, allowing Clint to tower over him, but the way that he tilts his head before asking his next question makes it clear who’s in charge. “That’s easy to say, son, and I’m aware that the media doesn’t always have the best information about you so-called heroes, but any information I can find seems to think you started out the Avenger’s first battle on the side of the psychopath invading Earth.”

For a second, time seems to literally stop. Clint hasn’t had to field questions about Loki since his SHIELD debriefing and mandatory psych testing afterwards. Phil’s never let anyone _near_ him with questions like that.

He’s still gaping, winded from the impact of the question when a high voice form the door to the kitchen asks. “Is that true? Were you a bad guy?”

Phil sounds so…disappointed.

Clint swallows down nausea and forces his voice to be level. His tone is even and easy, as he says, “Yeah. Loki has the power of mind control. He forced me.” His hands are clenching and unclenching at his side. He’s said more to very few people, it’s not a violation he likes to talk about.

Phil holds his eyes, assessing for a moment, and Clint waits, drawing himself up to attention and holding himself with his sniper’s stillness as he waits for judgement to rain down. “Well, then it wasn’t your fault,” he says, tone brooking no disagreement, and Clint breathes out a sigh he didn’t know he was holding.

Martin sighs too. “It’s not that easy, Pip. This is real life, not a comic book.”    

Phil shakes his head. “Everyone deserves a second chance, and if he didn’t mean it…”

Clint shakes his own head. He hadn’t meant it. He had tried everything to break Loki’s spell.

Before he can say that though, Martin speaks again. “Loki is a creature of myth, yes? In mythology, magic is a matter of will. If he had wanted to be free of the enchantment he would have been. Captain America wouldn’t have succumbed, would he?”

“No,” Phil answers with easy agreement that burns through Clint like acid. “But Clint is only human. He did his best.”

Phil and his dad look at each other a moment more. “I’m sorry, Pip,” Martin says, “I just don’t think you’re cut out for a job where you have to trust people like this. People will always betray you, as proved by Hawkeye here, and you’re too soft to deal with that.”

Such naked hurt passes over Phil’s face that Clint moves instinctively between them. “I’d never betray Phil,” he denies, and knows it sounds like a lie when he’s thinking of Loki, when he’s thinking of every moment of insubordination that Phil has had to defend and vouch for, when he’s thinking of the days last year where he made Phil show him how his family tore him down when he couldn’t defend himself. “Not if I could help it,” he amends, too little, too late.

Martin just angles his head, looking around Clint’s body to meet Phil’s eyes. His expression says, “See?” more efficiently than words could ever have managed.

Phil hesitates, uncertain. “He’s my friend,” he argues back softly.

“Is that friendship contingent on your being an agent?”

“No!” Clint denies before Phil can speak, feeling the ground slipping away beneath him. “No, of course not. But Phil is…” he turns away from Martin, whose blank eyes tell Clint he isn’t listening to his arguments and appeals directly to the boy who will become the only man who has always listened to him. “You are the best agent I’ve ever known, the only handler who I’ll work with.”

Phil smiles at him, but it’s tinged with uncertainty now and within seconds he’s looking back at his father. “That’s good, right?”

“I think someone who destroys city blocks for a living isn’t the greatest barometer of best agents, Pip.”

Phil’s face falls and Clint is inches away from throwing punches now. He has to get out of here, before he does something he can’t take back.

“I…I’m going upstairs, if that’s okay?” Clint keeps any hint of defiance from his voice. He has no right to be here, and it’s clear the Coulsons don’t want him. He hates feeling like he’s begging for their permission to stay but he will – he _has_ – done more for Phil. He doesn’t allow himself to imagine what Natasha would say if she could hear the defeat in his tone. Natasha doesn’t _do_ defeat, has never allowed anything to defeat her, and she doesn’t tolerate it in those she relies on.

Martin nods slowly. “Just think about what I’ve said. If you care about him at all, maybe you should let him have this second chance.”

Clint mumbles something he hopes sounds like agreement and leaves the room, Phil trailing in his wake.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: A confrontation with AIM leaves Coulson twelve years old. Unfortunately, Clint hasn’t filled out the paperwork to be allowed to take him back to Avengers tower, and since Phil’s family now know all about his work, Fury has no option but to send Coulson back to his parents until they work out how to reverse the damage. Sequel to Cover Story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: PG-13  
> Disclaimer: Not mine unfortunately, though considering what I put them through, probably for the best.  
> Warning/Spoilers: Angst, hurt/comfort, some extremely minor violence and threats from a bad guy we all love to hate in later chapters, non graphic sexuality of a minor, depending on how you perceive things and your own personal triggers, possible emotional abuse  
> Genre: angst, hurt/comfort, slash of the Clint/Coulson flavour – established relationship, friendship, kidfic, deaged Coulson

**Dysfunctional Families**

Clint doesn’t go to the roof only because he’s not sure if this mini, fragile version of Phil can make the climb without hurting himself. Instead, he heads for Phil’s bedroom and looks back questioningly for permission before letting himself inside. Phil follows him, and when he freezes awkwardly by the door, unsure if it is outright inappropriate for him to drop onto the bed of his now-preteen lover, Phil squeezes past him and stands behind the single chair at the desk, which holds an impressive collection of Captain America figures, each in their boxes.

There’s silence, but for Clint’s ragged panting while he tries to calm down.

“I’m sorry about my dad,” Phil says at last, a blush marring his cheeks, but gaze steady. He doesn’t mean it. He just doesn’t get…” he waves a hand vaguely, “this. Heroes. He says there’s no such thing, that no one can really be that altruistic.”

Clint swallows and looks away, staring fixedly at the bookshelf in the corner as though interested in the titles on the shelf. “He’s right. I’m not…I’m an assassin.”

Phil blinks, taken aback at that. “But you’re…one of the good guys. You’re Captain America’s friend.”

“I try to be,” Clint promises softly. “I do my best. But it’s not…it’s not all as easy as fighting Nazis. Sometimes you just have to take your best guess and go with it.”

Phil’s eyes are liquid with compassion. “That sounds hard.”

Clint’s mouth quirks very slightly. “That’s why I have you.”

Phil looks like he doesn’t know what to do with that sentence. “Oh.”

Clint musters up a better smile, and takes pity on the boy that looks like he doesn’t know what to do with someone who claims to be his friend standing in his bedroom. He’s the adult; sometimes he even acts like it. “So, tell me about all this stuff?”

Phil beams and opens his mouth, and then hesitates, visibly drawing back into himself. “Are you actually interested?”

“Sure. When you’re back to your regular size, I want to be able to tease you about the creepy amount you know about Steve,” but he smiles to show it’s a joke.

Phil gives him the “Really, Barton?” eyebrow, and that untwists something in Clint. He takes a seat on the floor, muscles loose even though he’s aware of both the windows and the door through the comforting drone of Phil’s voice. With Phil out of commission, he’s on watch, but this is familiar, the serenity of a room that just screams PHIL and Phil’s even cadence talking to him about anything. He’s half asleep, a small smile on his lips, head tilted back against the wall, and the sound of footsteps pounding on the stairs has him on his feet before he’s even registered he’s properly awake.

The door bangs open, only Clint’s quick reflexes saving it from crashing into him, and he has his handgun out and drawn, safety flicked off, without conscious thought. Mike falls back a startled step, and Clint blushes, securing the gun and pushing it back into his waistband, wishing he couldn’t see Phil’s horrified, and more than slightly scared, expression. His mouth is still open where he’d stopped midflow.

“What’s up?” Clint asks, pulling himself back together.

“And why didn’t you knock?” Phil demands plaintively.

Mike gives a slow smile, an undercurrent of viciousness to it. “You’re not supposed to be in here with the door shut, Pippa.”

Phil rolls his eyes. “That’s for when I have girls up here,” he points out, tone longsuffering.

Mike’s nasty expression widens. “Oh, please. You’ve never been interested in _girls_.”

Phil colours a vivid red and falls back a step, shocked. “How did you- Does dad know?”

“Everyone knows, Pippa.”

Phil sucks in an uneven breath and looks at his shoes.

“I wouldn’t touch him,” Clint promises quietly, fury repressed as he reminds himself – again – that smashing Mike’s head on the door frame will create more problems than it solves. “Not like this.”

Mike just shrugs, “Just keep the door open.”

He leaves, and after a moment Clint settles back into his vacated space. Phil tries to pick up where he left off, but the ease has gone out of his tone now and he keeps looking unhappily at the open door. After a few minutes he breaks himself off. “Why do you have a gun?”

“You’re an Avenger,” Clint says easily. “We have a lot of enemies, and too many of them would love to take advantage of the fact that you’re practically helpless right now.”

“I’m not helpless,” Phil argues, bristling with offended teenage pride. He huffs a sigh and clearly fights the impulse to stomp his foot. “So you’re my bodyguard?”

“I’m your _friend_ ,Phil,” Clint promises, “and part of that means keeping you safe. But hey,” he smiles and unfolds himself from the floor, “if you can land a hit on me, I’ll leave the gun in my room.”

Phil brightens, “Deal.”

He obligingly waits the few seconds it takes Clint to be ready, then strikes out, hard and quick with his right hand. Clint deflects it easily. Phil tries a few more hits and kicks before becoming frustrated and lashing out with a flurry of uncoordinated movement. He doesn’t get anywhere close to Clint and it takes the archer only a second to pin him still.

“No fair,” Phil mumbles into his arm. “You’re bigger.”

Clint shakes his head. “It’s not about being bigger. It’s just training and practise.”

He lets Phil go and the boy stumbles across the room without looking up. The tips of his ears are red. “Yeah, right.”

“No, really,” Clint insists. “You want me to show you?”

Phil peeps up at him, distrust in his eyes. “When Mike says he’s going to show me something he usually just hits me.”

Clint breathes through his nose and reminds himself that Phil is talking about a fifteen year old, not the fully grown man who just left. “Well, I won’t,” he promises through gritted teeth. “I’d never hit you.” He’s hit Phil before of course, in sparring and during the few rescues where Phil had shown up when Clint was too far gone to distinguish between friend and foe, but he’s never once intended to _damage_ Phil, and Phil has reciprocated every blow.

“Here?”

Clint looks around the room. It’s small, but he doubts he’ll be allowed to take Phil anywhere more private, and he doesn’t want to do this elsewhere in the house with an audience. “Here is fine. Move those breakable models up high. Just in case.”

Phil does as he’s told, then comes to stand in front of Clint. There’s still distrust in his eyes, but excitement too. Clint teaches him how to stand, and then how to throw a punch properly, slowing down his movements enough for Phil to see what he’s doing and copy.

There’s something intrinsically wrong with teaching Phil the basics of how to move his body, how to fall, how to throw a punch. Their history has been based on sparring virtually from the beginning. But in a way it’s soothing too in its very familiarity. This is far from the first time Clint’s taught Phil new moves, and, though what he had said to Mike was true, he’d never dream of touching Phil like this, he can’t deny the physical closeness of sparring with him is something of a relief.

He loves sparring with his Phil, loves watching the easy, economical grace Phil moves with. He loves the workout and being able to really let go without his life being on the line. Usually, he only gets to fight with all his strength and speed against enemies who want to eviscerate him, but he knows Phil can stop him from hurting him too badly. It is however, nice to be able to be careful with him, to coddle him like his Phil would never allow. He likes the novelty of being able to treat Phil as though he’s precious in a way he would never usually tolerate.

Besides, he’s thought on more than one occasion that if his life had been different, if it had been anything even resembling normal, he might have been a teacher. He actually likes showing people how he does stuff, and showing them slowly enough and often enough that they can recreate it at need. They already have Stark if they just want someone who can brag about their sheer awesome.

Clint barely notices the dying light, though he’s vaguely aware that they did stop at one point to turn the light on, and despite the fact this mini version of Phil isn’t anything even close to a match for him, he’s still sweat sodden when Phil breaks off his punch to yawn. For just a second, the exhaustion that Clint is suddenly aware of in his own limbs peeks through Phil’s determination and focus. Clint knows the man well enough to know that suggesting the boy take a break will only make him try harder. Instead, he stretches, feeling his back pop and he groans with relief. “Phew, I need a rest. You did good, Phil.”

“Yeah? You think I could ever be as good as Captain America?”

Clint feels a brief surge of irritation. What he said to Phil earlier was true, size isn’t important, and Steve’s greatest strength is his size. He isn’t an amazing combatant by any means. Clint’s put him on his ass a time or two, he beats him most of the time. The irritation fades as quickly as it comes and is replaced by a sense of loss when there is no touch or glance or gesture of reassurance. Clint resists the urge to wrap his arms around himself. “I’ve seen you beat someone who’s even better.”

Phil’s eyes widen, “There’s someone _better_? On the Avengers?”

“You remember the girl with me when we found you?” He waits for Phil’s nod, “That’s the Black Widow. She’s the best hand to hand combat artist I’ve ever seen. She runs circles around Steve.”

Phil scoffs, and there’s an unexpected flare of disappointment in his eyes. “You’re making fun of me. A girl couldn’t beat Captain America. He’s…well…Captain America.”

Clint’s lip twitches at the steadfast loyalty. He misses it; he knows Phil is always vaguely surprised when Natasha wipes the floor with him because he – for some reason – firmly believes Clint is the best. “I wouldn’t let her hear you say that.”

The disappointment and distrust, the surety he is being mocked is still there, but it’s tempered by a wary sort of interest. “She really can…She’s really better?”

“Like I said, training and practise beats big and strong every time.”

“Huh.”

Phil considers and Clint knows that face, it hasn’t changed at all. He waits patiently for whatever Phil will say, and behind them, there’s a step on the stair and then Julie is in the corridor. Whatever Phil had been thinking about is instantly forgotten. He smiles, wide and beaming, and Clint muses that it’s a pity that Phil trained all reactions out of himself. No one at SHIELD is given to overt shows of emotion, not genuine ones at any rate, that’s a quick route to danger in their job, but few people are as bland as Phil at all times. It’s a shame because he’s a good looking boy, especially when he smiles unrestrainedly like that, and Clint knows he’s breath-taking as a man when he does the same. He’d like to see that happy, free expression more often.

“Hey mom, look what Clint showed me.”

Julie barely acknowledges her son, instead her eyes flick over Clint, a very slight disapproving frown lurking in her eyes. Under different – better – circumstances, Clint would feel angry at that look. Jesus, what do these people think he is? But instead, although he couldn’t think of this Phil like _that_ if he tried, he just feels dirty. He drops his eyes and shuffles his feet. “We left the door open.”

She relaxes fractionally, “That’s good. Thank you.”

Whether or not he knows why, Clint isn’t sure, but Phil’s definitely noted the change in atmosphere and he draws slightly closer to Clint. Without thinking, Clint drops his hand, running a knuckle slightly against Phil’s upper arm, comfort and reassurance and a reminder to stay still and not to draw attention to himself, that Clint has this covered. Of course, this Phil doesn’t know that. “You want to see?” he asks, but the exuberant joy of a second ago has gone out of him now, now he’s much more hesitant.

“Tomorrow,” Julie promises, an expression Clint recognises as Phil’s humouring-junior-agents-because-the-sooner-I-agree-with-them-the-sooner-they’ll-go-away-and-let-me-get-my-actual-work-done expression on her face. “It’s bedtime, Pip.”

Phil glances around, but there’s no clock in this room. Clint tilts his wrist so Phil can read his watch without needing to be asked. “It’s only nine thirty, mom! I’m almost _thirteen_!”

“And you can read until ten, but your brother has got an early morning and a long commute ahead of him so you need to stop your crashing about and silliness now.”

Phil visibly draws into himself. “Right, sorry. If we’re quiet, can Clint stay in here and talk?”

Julie shoots Clint another narrow eyed look, and Clint softens his posture, making his body language as unthreatening as possible.

“No, dear. It’s time to settle down now. You’ll have all day tomorrow with Clint, we still haven’t enrolled you in a school, just in case this…this doesn’t last.”

It kills him to do so, but Clint follows her out of the room. “Night, Phil,” he says in the doorway.

“Night.”

Clint flicks the door shut with his heel behind him. He has to bite the inside of his cheek until his mouth fills with the taste of blood to stop himself challenging Julie where she stands. Her disapproving frown is more obvious now she’s not hiding it from Phil. “Martin said you were going to back off, and let Pip have his second chance at a real life.”

Clint’s chin comes up, and his back straightens, but he holds his ground, not using his size and height to intimidate Phil’s mom because when he’s back to normal – and he will be, Tony and Bruce will find a way to fix it, Clint trusts them, he _does_ , even with Phil – Phil will be pissed at him. Clint’s never really had a mom, not one he remembers, but he’s sure threatening them without due cause is bad. Still, he drops his voice to match her whispered tone. “Phil has a life, and he’s amazing at it. He’s the best at what he does, he’s _third_ in the direct chain of command and he has friends who love him and would do anything for him.”

Julie sniffs. “None of that will be worth a damn when he dies trying to impress Captain America.”

There are tears in her eyes. Clint thinks you’re supposed to comfort crying women, but the only woman he’s ever seen cry is Natasha and she’s more likely to stab you for trying to comfort her than appreciate it. Clint affects not to notice, though he softens his tone a little. A very little. “He’s not trying to impress Captain America. He’s been doing this since long before they found Steve.”

“I know my boy, Clint. _Finding_ Captain America had nothing to do with Pip trying to impress him.”

Clint bites his tongue; that’s probably true actually. He feels a staccato of doubt start pulsing behind his eyes, _maybe_ , a small voice inside him says, _she’s right and I should go_. He should leave Phil to be happy and smile as often as he wants to. The only thing that stops him giving into it is the gut deep, _soul_ deep knowledge that he can’t leave Phil here. These people undoubtedly love him, but they show it in all the wrong ways. Phil needs to be trusted and relied on to flourish, not have everything done for him to keep him safe. He does best when he is needed, when he is someone’s – Clint’s – rock, when he has some reason to hold steady in the worst of storms. He doesn’t need to be coddled. A brief flash of guilt that he relished sparring with an untrained Phil because he got to be careful with him lances across Clint’s mind. He knows better.

“Being a SHIELD agent is who he is.”

She shakes her head, and her expression is almost pitying. “You didn’t know him before. He could have been anything.”

Clint can’t quite hide the hot burst of anger this time. “I know. I know he could have been anything. He chose to do this, and he suffered to be the best at it. You can’t take that away from him. He’s not a child!”

“Yes, he is,” she hisses back, just as hotly. “He’s _my_ child.”

He breathes through his nose, fingers tensing and relaxing convulsively. “Let’s see what Tony and Bruce find. Let’s see what they say about getting him back to normal, then he can make his own choices about what he wants.” He’s striving for diplomacy, fighting to keep quiet.

Julie gives him the sympathetic, pitying smile from a moment ago, and Clint knows before she speaks that her words will be a blow he doesn’t know how to take. He has only a second to steel himself and then, “Any discoveries your friends make will be irrelevant, Clint. He’s a minor, he will need one of his parents to consent to any medical or experimental treatments, and we will not be giving our permission.”

Clint rocks on his feet, hand latching onto Phil’s doorframe in lieu of the man himself as he fights to stay upright.

“I’ll give you a couple of days to say goodbye.”

Clint is still trying to breathe through the pain when she turns and walks away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: A confrontation with AIM leaves Coulson twelve years old. Unfortunately, Clint hasn’t filled out the paperwork to be allowed to take him back to Avengers tower, and since Phil’s family now know all about his work, Fury has no option but to send Coulson back to his parents until they work out how to reverse the damage. Sequel to Cover Story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: PG-13  
> Disclaimer: Not mine unfortunately, though considering what I put them through, probably for the best.  
> Warning/Spoilers: Angst, hurt/comfort, some extremely minor violence and threats from a bad guy we all love to hate in later chapters, non graphic sexuality of a minor, depending on how you perceive things and your own personal triggers, possible emotional abuse  
> Genre: angst, hurt/comfort, slash of the Clint/Coulson flavour – established relationship, friendship, kidfic, deaged Coulson

**Dysfunctional Families**

How long he stands in the hallway, Clint doesn’t actually remember. He stays quiet and sniper still long enough to get his breathing and heart rate under control, long enough to get his legs steady under him. There are no tears in him, nor anger, he feels hollow and raw, scooped out and cold in a way he hasn’t felt since Natasha pulled him aside before the debrief after the Chitauri and told him that Phil had died on the helicarrier. He doesn’t know how to _be_ without Phil.

He’s still standing in the hallway, back to Phil’s door and distantly relieved that his and Julie’s whispered conversation hadn’t been enough to alert this more trusting Phil, when he hears a thin, thready moan from the other side of the door. He has his hand on the handle before he can think and he’s seconds away from pushing inside, from dismembering whatever is hurting Phil, when the moan sounds again, bitten off and made ragged with an undertone of uneven breathing.

Clint blinks, and pulls back as though burned. He knows that sound. He _lives_ for that sound. Phil is in there, jacking off. He swallows and hesitates, not listening because eww, no, not with Phil as a fucking _child_ , but not able to pull himself away, to separate himself from Phil either. He feels, illogically, that if he allows himself to be parted from Phil that he’ll never see him again. There’s another low, breathy whimper. It probably wouldn’t be audible if Clint wasn’t straining for every noise, for that last tenuous link of connection.

Phil gasps again, and Clint can picture his face, feels his own heat in response.

“Captain,” Phil chokes out, “ _Steve_.”

But that…that’s more than Clint can take. He turns and bolts for his own room, sinking to the floor, back to the door to keep it shut and knees pulled up to his chest. He twines shaking hands into his hair and tugs, trying to use the pain to bring him back to himself. He feels sick.

Clint tries to slow his breathing, telling himself that Phil doesn’t want Steve now. He can hear Phil’s voice clearly, reassuring him: “ _You’ve got nothing to worry about, Steve is a nice guy and all but he’s not...Captain America was my adolescent fantasy, Steve would never live up to it no matter how good he is. You’re...real,_ ” but it doesn’t work. It’s not exactly a declaration of love is it? More an admission of defeat. Maybe he should just walk away. Maybe Julie’s right and that would be best for everyone. Maybe if he asked nicely they would let him keep in touch, let him see Phil when he had time in between missions.

He tugs harder on his hair, until the pain is sharp and bright, and it doesn’t help because this is how _Phil_ tugs his hair when he’s not taking no for an answer and he wants Clint to move as he’s told. He feels his stomach roll over, hot bile filling his mouth and there’s a soft tap at the door a foot above his head.

He leaps to his feet, scrubbing a hand across dry eyes. It’s not Phil, the footfalls he’d subliminally been aware of were too heavy, and the knock comes from too high up the door. It is only because he’s terrified that the Coulsons will throw him out, will take Phil away from him, that he doesn’t tell the knocker to fuck off, and instead pulls the door open slowly. It’s Mike.

Clint fakes a smile and leans against the doorframe, the pose one of casual nonchalance, but really using the wood to keep it from being too obvious that he’s shaking like a leaf in a storm. “What’s up, Mikey?”

Mike’s eyes narrow, but his smile doesn’t change. “I just came to give you my condolences.”

“Condolences?” Clint repeats blankly.

“Yeah, losing your lover to something like this, that’s gotta be rough.”

Clint swallows dryly. “We don’t know he’ll need any procedure,” his voice is remarkably steady considering his inner turmoil, and he sees no point in hiding his thoughts. While he and Phil were sparring, there had obviously been a family meeting downstairs, Mike knows everything he knows. “It might just wear off.”

“Yeah, maybe. But until then, I’m going to take advantage of Pip not lording his secret agent bullshit over my head.”

He crowds Clint up against the wall and, in his surprise, Clint lets him. “You…you’re jealous! You’re jealous of Phil.”

For a second, Mike’s face darkens, then the smile is back and he gives a carless shrug. “Maybe, but why not? I’ve spent years working so mom and dad would be proud of me and Pip decides _one day_ just to drop a bombshell that makes me _invisible_? No. I don’t think so. If he was really this badass agent you keep telling me he is, I wouldn’t have been able to push him around for so long. He’s weak, and pathetic and nothing more than a Captain America _stalker_ who got lucky.”

Clint shoves him hard against the doorframe and has his fist clenched and raised before he catches himself. With difficulty he pulls himself back, breathing hard. “You watch your mouth,” he warns in a low growl.

“I’ll say what I want, _Hawkeye_. He’s my brother, and shortly, I’ll adopt him. Mom and dad are too old to raise another teenager. I’ll adopt him, and I’ll take him out of state, somewhere where you’ll never see him again.”

Clint takes half a step forward, growling.

Mike just smirks at him. “Go on,” he taunts, “hit me. You’re a fucking _Avenger_ , Hawkeye, and I’m a doctor. You hit me, I’ll have you behind bars so fast your feet won’t touch the ground.”

It actually hurts to pull back, but somehow Clint manages. “Get out,” he orders, his voice rough.

“This is my house, you can’t order me around like that. Ask me politely.”

There is literally nothing Clint wouldn’t give for Phil’s steady voice in his ear, or hand, warm and steadying, on the back of his neck. It costs him everything to fight down the scream bubbling inside him and force his voice into a civil register. “Leave,” he grits out, the word clipped and sharp, “please.”

Mike smiles at him. It’s Phil’s shining, sunny grin, but colder, and with nothing but mockery in his eyes. “Sure. Sleep tight.”

The door has barely shut behind him, before Clint is fumbling for his phone, because no. He and Phil might need to have a talk later; he doesn’t want to be Phil’s consolation prize, but there’s no way he’s letting that jerk have full responsibility for Phil. That is just not happening. Not if there’s anything he can do about it.

He calls Pepper’s private line. “Pepper? Pepper, I need a favour.” He babbles out the story, twice she has to ask him to slow down and repeat himself, and by the time he’s finished he’s panting like he just ran a marathon.

There’s a beat of silence. “Let me get this straight, you’re looking for me to sort out medical proxy papers that allow you, one of the other Avengers, or one of SHIELD’s senior staff to authorise Phil for whatever procedure Bruce comes up with, even though he’s technically a minor and his parents will oppose any such action, probably in court?”

“Yes.” The single word is desperate and hopeless.

Pepper hums. “That’s extremely illegal.”

“I don’t fucking care,” Clint barks and then gets a grip on himself. “Sorry, no, I didn’t mean that. But Pepper, you’ve met his family, you can’t…you can’t want him to stay here?”

There’s something dark in Pepper’s tone when she asks, “Are they hurting him?”

Clint bites his tongue against the yes he knows will make her help him regardless of legalities. “Not physically. They do love him. They just…don’t care about who he _is_ or will be or whatever the fuck. He’s their baby and nothing else.”

Pepper hums again, and there’s the same pitying note in her tone as there was in Julie’s when she says, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Can you…is it even possible?”

“Maybe. I’ll try, Clint. It’s the most I can offer.”

It’s more than anyone else. And she’s his first call, not his only one. Clint has favours within SHIELD he can call in, as does Natasha, and he’s sure she’ll help him too. Fury won’t want to lose his one good eye to this. Clint forces himself to breathe calmly. He still has options. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Pepper responds and there’s a muted click as she hangs up.

He takes a breath and composes himself. If he rings Natasha sounding as wrecked as he feels, she will have no compunctions about storming the place and outright abducting Phil and that almost certainly won’t help. When he thinks he can keep his tone professional, he taps in her number from memory.

*

Clint’s just hanging up on Sitwell, when he hears it. A low roar, like thunder too far away to be heard clearly. Without looking, he reaches out for the bow and quiver in the corner, and feels instantly calmer when he has the weapons in hand. He opens the bedroom door soundlessly and grabs Phil as he scurries past. The boy lets out a surprised noise, and Clint motions for him to be silent.

“Stay here,” he breathes, “and be quiet. I’ll go and see what’s happening.”

Phil scowls. “I can help. You said I was a brilliant agent.”

Clint knows he’s being manipulated, but it’s just not in him to make Phil feel helpless. He knows how badly that hurts. He takes a deep breath. “Listen, that sound…I think I know what it is and if I’m right this isn’t going to be pretty.”

“What is it?” Phil asks breathlessly.  

Clint hesitates, but just for a second. “It sounds like a military chopper.”

“I don’t get it. Why is that bad?”

Clint grabs the slender shoulders and misses the strength usually there. He grips bruisingly tight, but Phil doesn’t wince. “There are people in the army that want to weaponise this kind of thing. They will take you, and they will treat you like a science experiment and they will say they have the right because you – the adult you – signed a contract to serve and protect this country to the best of your abilities.”

There’s a second of uneasy silence, but Phil doesn’t waver. “Tell me what to do.”

“I need you to get your family and get them out of the house. The kind of people that will do things like this will think nothing of using your mom as a hostage to get you to come with them. You get everyone and you make them take you as far away as possible, okay?”

Phil scowls again. “I’m not running away. I’m not leaving you.”

There really, really should not be any universe where Clint has to argue _for_ a tactical retreat with Phil Coulson of all people. He sharpens his voice. “This is the only way I can protect everyone. If you stay here, someone is going to die.”

Phil bites his lip.

“Please, Phil. I need you to do this. Evacuate everyone, and when you’re out of the city call,” he fumbles in his pocket, and pulls out his cell phone. “Call the last number dialled. Tell the man that picks up who you are and what’s happened, and tell him I’ll need back up.”

“But what about you?”

“I’ll be fine. They don’t care about me.” Probably. Hopefully. If Clint’s suspicions about who is in that chopper are correct, he knows he can be leveraged against at least three of the Avengers, and Ross would far rather have the Hulk than a way to turn people into children. “I’ll be careful.”

Phil looks at him for another moment.

“ _Go_ ,” Clint insists, ears straining. There’s no distinctive sound of the chopper overhead now, but he knows from past experience that the Coulsons’ lawn is large enough to land on.

Thankfully, Phil goes. Clint gives himself a second to sigh his relief, then he’s slinging the quiver across his back and shimmying out of the window and climbing upwards, aiming for the roof. He’s right, the chopper is down now, a dark menacing mound, and there are half a dozen men in black tac vests spreading out across the lawn, and Clint finds a fraction of a second to be relieved that the house is isolated and there are no gawking neighbours.

He taps at his ear, where his comm would usually be out of habit, and stills his body in the silence. Moving slowly enough that he won’t draw attention to himself, he draws and nocks and arrow, settling it to one of the low level blast charges.

He fires it direct into the centre of the lawn, several feet away from any of the black suited men and watches them scatter like ants when it explodes. He doesn’t want to hurt them, and right now, his objective is causing enough chaos to let Phil get away.

There are a few shouts from below and Clint dimly hears the buzzing and crackling of radios in use, then the sound of screeching tires on asphalt.

Having apparently regrouped, the men are now making their way towards the house again. Clint doubts they’ll be swayed again by such a low level explosion, and he’s been on the other side of too many ops like this to want to rack up a body count. God know what these men have been told: dangerous biological attack with unknown effects loose in a civilian population? High ranking agent with every secret in the country now in an excruciatingly vulnerable position and we have to get him before anyone else does? Either is likely, and Clint can think of a dozen others.

He changes arrow head and sends two EMP blasts in quick succession, one disabling the chopper and the other landing square in the gaggle of soldiers meaning when they spread out they’d have no communication. Then, he turns and slithers back down the roof and in through the window.

They know someone has their number now, that this is more complicated than a stealth-extract mission, but Clint is betting on them not wanting to cause more chaos and destruction than necessary to a civilian house, that never looked good, and they must know they’d be playing against SHIELD and the Avengers. He’s betting on the guys, whoever they are, still trying to search the house quietly, neutralising threats as they go, and he’s betting that he’s better than they are and that Phil will do his job and he’ll have backup, he’ll have _Natasha_. That thought makes his mouth quirk up in a feral smile. He will die and kill in Phil’s defence without the faintest flicker of remorse, but Natasha’s protective streak when roused is vicious, and she will protect them both too.

Clint grabs his gun and both his knives when he re-enters his room. He pauses at his door, listening for a second until he’s sure the hallway is empty, then inching it open, crouched low to the ground instead of at a height anyone will be aiming at.

Silent as a shadow, Clint slips into the dark hallway. He lets himself into the bathroom. It’s not – quite – perfectly opposite Phil’s room, but it’s close, it has a good line of sight and that’s all he cares about. It’s more than possible that these people know the layout of the house, and if that’s the case, they’ll head for Phil’s room first.

He’s barely had time to conceal himself when he hears the first footstep on the stairs. Clint readies himself, drawing back the bowstring slowly, eyes fixing on the stairs. A figure, smaller than he was expecting puts his head around the corner.

“Clint?” hisses Phil’s voice, a bare breath.

Clint nearly drops his bow. It goes against every instinct to expose his hiding place, but Phil was hardly quiet on the stairs, and Clint won’t leave him helpless in the open. He nudges the bathroom door with his foot, just enough to make it swing and draw Phil’s eye, then he beckons.

To his credit, Phil doesn’t waste time, he scampers quickly across the hall towards him. Clint pulls him into the room, and shuts the door fully this time. His priority is getting Phil out, if that means letting these guys get away, so be it. He flicks the lock and sinks to the floor, keeping his body down as much as possible, before pulling Phil to kneel in front of him so any bullets which do come through the wood will have to go through him first.     

“Why are you here?” he whispers. “I heard the car, I told you to go.”

“I did everything you asked me,” Phil says defensively. “I called for backup. The guy…Sitwell? He said he’d call the Avengers. I wanted-” his eyes fill with something honest and raw and too much and his cheeks flood with colour. Then he looks down and mumbles, “I wanted to see Captain America again.”

Under better circumstances, Clint would demand to know what he’d actually been going to say, but now is not the time. “And you convinced your parents to leave you here?”

“I- no, not exactly.”

“Well, _what_ exactly?”

“I told them I’d ride in Mike’s car. Mike thinks I’m riding with mom.”

Clearly these people have never listened to any of either Clint of Phil’s stories of what he’d done, of who he is. Yeah, some of it’s training and practise and experience, but no one can be taught to be the agent Phil is. He gives a short laugh, a sound cut off almost before it starts. “It’s funny,” he explains off Phil’s look, “you’re always complaining that your job amounts to babysitting a bunch of semi-delinquent superheroes and now here I am, babysitting you and you turn out to be a hell-raiser.”

Phil gives him an uncertain look. “And that’s good?”

Clint just shakes his head and doesn’t answer. He takes a deep breath and stands. He bodily lifts Phil, depositing him in the shower and holding a finger to his lips to motion for quiet. “We need to get out of this house. The others are coming for us, but we can’t evade a group of trained soldiers.”

Phil looks around and half steps out of the shower cubicle. “So we need to-”

He reaches for the door, Clint slaps his hand aside, his head cocks. Outside is the definite sound of footfalls now, doors opening and closing. Someone rattles the knob of the bathroom door, jerking the door on its hinges.

“This one’s locked,” a low gruff voice says.

“Come out, come out,” a second voice mocks, “we know you’re in there.”

Clint springs across the room, opening the window and looking out. He could make the fall, but Phil doesn’t know how to brace for an impact like that. With only seconds to decide, he grabs the boy and pushes him up and out, ignoring the shocked exhalation of breath. He waits until Phil has gripped the ridging of the roof and somehow wriggled up, then he passes up his quiver and bow. “Still got my phone?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ve got it.”

“Good, count to a thousand, then call Sitwell back and tell him you’re on the roof, hostiles in the building. Someone’ll come and get you.”

“But what about you?”

Clint smiles a little at the panicky question. “I’m going to buy you some time.” He slams the window shut just as a booted foot takes the door off its hinges and offers the men crowding into the door a shit eating grin. It wants to fall off his face when he sees the man pushing his way through the crowd.

He’s not wearing black assault gear, simply regular uniform and a disappointed expression as his eyes rake over Clint. Clint would know him anywhere. “Evening, General,” he smirks through the lead dread in his stomach. Tony was right. Sometimes being right sucks.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: A confrontation with AIM leaves Coulson twelve years old. Unfortunately, Clint hasn’t filled out the paperwork to be allowed to take him back to Avengers tower, and since Phil’s family now know all about his work, Fury has no option but to send Coulson back to his parents until they work out how to reverse the damage. Sequel to Cover Story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: PG-13  
> Disclaimer: Not mine unfortunately, though considering what I put them through, probably for the best. Additional disclaimer to AC/DC _Evil Walks ___  
> Warning/Spoilers: Angst, hurt/comfort, some extremely minor violence and threats from a bad guy we all love to hate in later chapters, non graphic sexuality of a minor, depending on how you perceive things and your own personal triggers, possible emotional abuse  
>  Genre: angst, hurt/comfort, slash of the Clint/Coulson flavour – established relationship, friendship, kidfic, deaged Coulson

 

**Dysfunctional Families**

They don’t find Phil, and they believe Clint when he brags that he got the boy out before they even made it into the house. They do however, tie him to a chair and pistol whip him a couple of times for his trouble. Clint makes a couple of sarcastic remarks about the strength of their hits, the size of their dicks and his constitutional rights, before realising that he’s getting no response out of them. That’s so much worse than the beating he’d receive for making them angry. The ones that can’t be riled by mockery are always the most dangerous. He falls silent, doing his best to rock with the punches as much as he can to mitigate the strength of the blows.

They keep hitting him, while Ross watches impassively, demanding to know where Phil was headed. Clint clenches his teeth until he feels his jaw creak, but doesn’t utter a sound, which is why it’s quiet enough in the Coulsons’ spacious front room to hear the sound. The distinctive rap of a pebble against a window. No self-respecting henchman would be distracted by the noise but these two idiots fucking turn. Clint bites his lip. No self-respecting distraction would use the pebble-against-the-window technique either. Not unless they were about twelve and hopped up on kid’s mystery stories, but Phil will have stayed where he’s told and…oh, who’s he kidding? He knows who’s out there.

He spits the blood in his mouth from where he’s now bitten through his lip to the floor and slumps forward with a groan. When henchman One turns back to him, a leer on his face, Clint allows himself to cringe away from the hand, a weak, “Don’t!” on his lips.

Forgetting the sound, henchman Two steps towards him. “Where is he? Where were they headed?”

Clint hesitates for a split second. Saying New York is probably the most believable thing, and he’d just _love_ to watch these morons try and break into Tony Stark’s tower. Hell, he’d sell tickets and popcorn, and probably make enough to pay Tony back for at least some of the ridiculously expensive tech. He is not however, going to send these idiots anywhere near Bruce. He has to give them something though. “Portland,” he whispers. The wince isn’t feigned, Phil is going to _kill_ him, Portland’s his favourite safehouse.

These guys might believe him, these guys being, somewhat obviously, stupid, but Ross gives him a cold smile and motions to the windows. “Find whoever’s out there. It’s probably the boy. Remember, I don’t want him damaged,” he smirks nastily at Clint, “yet.”

Clint lunges at him despite the rope but Ross is unperturbed, for all the man’s faults, cowardice isn’t one of them. He’s faced down the Hulk more than once after all. “There’s nothing out there,” Clint insists, “Phil’s long gone.” With his attention badly divided – Tasha is going to kick his ass and rightly so – between the General and the noises outside, it’s obvious he’s lying.

“You expect me to believe that the man who stayed silent so as _not to give me any satisfaction_ suddenly just felt like betraying his,” Ross’ voice twists from delighted, sadistic sneer to disgust, “lover.”

Clint doesn’t really have an answer to that, so he falls back on insults. “Does the idea of two men together offend you, General? You should try it. Have my lips and you’ll never look back.”

Ross looks queasy as he slaps him across the face with an almost casual motion. The slap is stinging and warm, it would barely hurt if it weren’t layering new, bright pain over tender, pulped flesh. Clint clamps down on the hiss and cry that wants to escape him, Ross is right, he _won’t_ give him the satisfaction, and his head snaps instantly and unerringly to the window when there’s a yell from outside. He knows that voice all too well, and it’s only confirmed when Phil is marched into the room, right arm twisted cruelly up his back and eye blackened.

For an instant Clint sees red that anyone has dared lay a hand on Phil, mark him, particularly this little, young version, then he sees how the boy is still twisting and fighting, lashing out with feet and teeth. He lacks the strength or leverage to free himself and he’ll only hurt his arm pulling it about like that.

“Phil,” he says softly, and Phil stills instantly. “I thought I told you to wait where I left you?”

Phil’s eyes follow a rattle as Clint’s bow and quiver hit the ground at Ross’ feet. “I thought you might want that.”

“I had this.”

Phil looks at him, and there’s no fear in face, just disdain. “So I see.”

Clint can’t help but laugh because the line, the delivery, it’s just so Phil.

Phil puffs up at the laughter. “You looked like you needed it,” he insists and that sobers Clint up quiet effectively because he can tell by the feel of his bruised face and torso that yeah, he kind of did need a weapon. It was a nice thought. “I thought I could…” Phil goes on.

Clint has no idea what he’s going to say, but at best it’s going to be something so sweet and earnest it’s going to gut him from the inside out to hear it come from Phil’s lips and he can do without an audience for that, thanks. Worst case, it’s going to be a viable plan they can use later if Phil doesn’t monologue about it now.

“Just because you can,” he says, an adage his Phil uses on him often enough, “doesn’t mean you should.”

“Philip Coulson?” Ross interrupts imperiously.

Phil tilts his chin up a little. “Philip Coulson of SHIELD,” and Clint wants to smile again. Instead, he makes use of the distraction to try and wriggle his hands free.

Ross smiles, “Good enough.” He nods to the man holding Phil, “Load him up. I want to be away from here before anyone reports the disturbance.”

“Wait,” Clint demands, pulling ever more frantically at his bonds. “Wait. Just-”

Ross smiles down on him, a proprietary hand that makes Clint want to rip off his whole arm and feed it to him on Phil’s shoulder. “My apologies, agent Hawkeye, but I am afraid that for you the party is over. I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to escape eventually, or failing that, Philip’s family might return.”

Clint hisses like an angry cat and then cocks his head as the faint strains of music reach him.

Ross looks around, puzzled, as well he might be. There shouldn’t be anyone around for miles.

_Black widow weavin' evil notion_  
 _Dark secret's bein' spun in your web_  
 _Good men goin' down in your ocean_

The strains of the familiar song cut across the clear still air. Clint looks up at Ross and gives him his best and most dangerous smile. “Actually, I think the party’s just beginning.”

*

It doesn’t take the Avengers long to dispatch Ross and his men, even accounting for the fact that, given who they were facing, they’d left Bruce at home. It’s over embarrassingly quickly actually, Clint wonders where they even get these morons. Phil spends the little there is of combat crouched behind Clint’s chair. He’s trying to undo the knots on the ropes, but Clint’s struggling and pulling and _helping_ so they keep getting tangled again because he’s pretty sure Phil is safer where he is and wants to keep him there.

When at last the house is cleared, Natasha steps up close and smirks down at him. “Getting slow, Hawkeye.”

“Shut up,” he grimaces and then twitches free of the last of the ropes. Phil gives him a sideways look, but doesn’t ask. He does move fractionally closer to Clint’s side when Natasha turns her assessing gaze on him.

“Are you okay?” she asks and it’s odd to hear the gentle tone coming out of her voice. Clint doesn’t miss the way her eyes darken as she takes in his black eye.

Phil nods decisively and straightens his sleeves. “I’m fine.” He shoots another glance at Clint then offers. “I’m sorry. For not staying where I was told, but I couldn’t just…sit there.”

Natasha shrugs, graceful as a cat. “Of course not, none of us like to sit around when others are being hurt.”

Clint glares at her. That sentiment is all well and good when Phil can take out uncountable hoards with a tie and slice of cucumber, but it’s completely different now. Before he can say anything however, Tony pushes into the room. He’s wearing the suit, but the helmet is tucked under his arm. He’s smiling, a little too manic, a little too bright. Tony never does well with his people being messed with, none of them do, but Tony takes it particularly hard.

“We’re done. Sitwell and Hill are rounding everyone up now for processing, we’ll never be able to hold them, but it might make Ross think twice next time.”

Clint’s attention switches from Natasha to Tony in an instant. “Did we get Ross?”

Tony shakes his head, eyes glittering. “No. And our good Captain won’t let me go after the bastard and rectify that situation. Which means he’ll try again.”

“Probably soon,” Clint continues, following the thought. “He’ll be trying to keep us on the back foot, and it’s not like he can’t get another squad together.”

“My thought exactly, we need to go. SHIELD is taking the prisoners, and Cap said he’d deal with the media.”

“And what about-?” Clint glances at Phil. He has no intentions of leaving him. “He’s not…I’m not technically his guardian. I can’t just take him, not unless we want to be in the middle of a kidnapping case.”

“One, my lawyers could handle that in their sleep. But it’s not going to be a problem. Fury’s been bitching about Coulson being out of commission since before you even left, so Sitwell’s come up with a way to shut him up. He’s going to log it for us as a rescue. Bruce has a cure back at the tower. Agent’ll be himself again before anyone gets through the red tape.”

“A cure?” Phil pipes up, looking between them, eyes round. “I’m going to be my grown up self again?”

“Yeah, you’ll be back to your usual self and I cannot tell you what a relief it will be to mock you about all of this instead of worrying about it.” There is truthfulness evident in his tone.

“Bruce is sure?” Clint pushes, “The cure will work? This isn’t some experimental thing?”  

Tony favours him with a crooked smile. “None of us are poster children for good lab practise, but we’re careful when it’s not…you know…us. He’ll be fine. Trust Bruce.”

Clint nods, he does trust Bruce.

Tony breaks the intense moment, looking back at Phil. “Is there anything you need to take?”

“I…I’d like to get changed? If that’s okay?”

“Sure, yeah, fine.”

They all follow Phil like a line of ducklings, none of them wanting to let him out of their sight. Even Steve detaches himself from the group of SHIELD agents he’s stood with and hurries over. He favours them all with a quick flick of the eyes, visibly checking for damage. Phil flushes to the tips of his ears, but Steve doesn’t comment.

There’s no laughing and joking as they head upstairs, the tension still too raw and Clint tenses slightly in readiness at every corner, seeing out of the corner of his eye Natasha doing the same, but they have done a thorough job of clearing the house and there is no one. Clint realises too late to stop the others where they are headed and there’s a deepening of the silence into something almost tangible as they all file into Phil’s room. It’s broken by Tony who lets out a high pitched hysterical giggle and digs Steve in the side with one still gauntleted finger. Steve, who usually ignores Tony’s teasing, slaps his hand away with more vehemence than is warranted, probably for something to do. He’s glowing scarlet. Clint closes his eyes. Phil is _really_ going to kill him.

“Maybe you guys should wait outside,” he suggests weakly.

“No way,” Tony says, eyes roving around the collection. “I want Phil to show me this. This is better than my collection and I was the millionaire child of Cap’s biggest fan. I had _everything_.”

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve groans looking mortified.

“You…you really want to see? I have some limited edition stuff too,” Phil offers shyly.

“Hell yeah, I want to-”

“No!” Clint says firmly. “No. We need to get going. You two can fangirl on the way home.” He none too gently shoves the others from the room.

When he turns around, Phil is pouting at him. Honest to god. Pouting. Clint is so done dealing with this shit. “I wanted to show Iron Man my stuff.”

“You will thank me when you’re older.”

“I-”

“Trust me.” It’s half wry admonishment and half plea and Phil doesn’t agree with him, or even soften his expression into something understanding, but he does at least stop arguing with Clint and begins rummaging around for some clean clothes.

Clint sighs with relief and ducks out into the corridor with the others.

Tony opens his mouth, gleeful smile in place and Clint holds up a hand. “Not a word, Stark. I have had a truly terrible night and if you piss me off, I will shoot you.”

Tony cocks his head, seemingly examining him for truthfulness. “Seems fair. Though, I reserve the right to mock Agent when he will at least _know_ that I am mocking him.”

“Feel free. But when he’s regular size again, I will be giving him back his taser. And his sidearm.”

“You are no fun, Barton.”

“Your life is truly a study in misery and woe, Stark. I don’t know how you carry on.”

“Sheer bravery and perseverance, mostly.”

The door opens behind them. It’s Phil, now in a Captain America t-shirt and a new pair of jeans. “That’s…uh…that’s what you want to wear?” Clint asks, mostly because most of SHIELD seems to be downstairs, and Phil’s abiding love for Captain America is a personal detail few people know.

Phil folds his arms across his chest. “I’m twelve. I can choose my own t-shirt.”

And mostly because they have to go before anyone with the authority to stop them turns up, Clint shrugs and moves far enough to the side to let him out of the room. He gives both Steve and Natasha grateful smiles when they close in on his small form close enough that their bodies are providing enough cover to hide him from most people’s view.

“Let’s roll,” Tony pronounces, far too cheerful.

Clint rubs at his forehead. It’s going to be a long ride home.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: A confrontation with AIM leaves Coulson twelve years old. Unfortunately, Clint hasn’t filled out the paperwork to be allowed to take him back to Avengers tower, and since Phil’s family now know all about his work, Fury has no option but to send Coulson back to his parents until they work out how to reverse the damage. Sequel to Cover Story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: PG-13  
> Disclaimer: Not mine unfortunately, though considering what I put them through, probably for the best.  
> Warning/Spoilers: Angst, hurt/comfort, some extremely minor violence and threats from a bad guy we all love to hate in later chapters, non graphic sexuality of a minor, depending on how you perceive things and your own personal triggers, possible emotional abuse  
> Genre: angst, hurt/comfort, slash of the Clint/Coulson flavour – established relationship, friendship, kidfic, deaged Coulson

**Dysfunctional Families**

The antidote is a gigantic anti-climax. After all the stress Clint has gone through he expected dramatic, and immediate, aging, and choruses of angels, but Phil simply drinks whatever concoction Bruce has cooked up and grimaces at the taste. He rolls his eyes as they all stare at him, waiting for something to happen.

“I don’t feel any different.”

Bruce mutters something about it maybe taking a while to kick in and returns to his computer, typing furiously while Tony stands at his shoulder, alternatively making suggestions and mocking Bruce for using a keyboard.

Clint takes Phil around the tower. It feels strange showing all his secret hiding spaces to someone who knew them just a week ago, but it’s fun too.

“You’re good with him,” Natasha comments when Phil disappears practically inside the giant fridge in the communal kitchen, searching for something to eat. “I’m not sure I could do the same. It must be strange.”

“It is strange,” Clint agrees, and blames the sleep deprivation and possible concussion he’s denying having for adding, “And it’s not so weird. He…this Phil doesn’t…act like my- He likes Captain America better than me.”

Natasha looks at him pityingly, like he’s just too stupid to live. “Oh, Clint. Please don’t tell me you believe that.”

Clint looks pointedly at Phil’s shirt and says nothing.

Natasha’s lips turn down. “Captain America is his hero. He hasn’t allowed you out of his sight since we picked him up.”

*

Eventually, Phil gets tired and they find him a room. It’s the spare on his and Clint’s floor, and Clint doesn’t sleep that night. Sitting up instead on his sofa with Natasha, watching reruns of the A-Team, taking hourly reports from JARVIS about the internal security of the building, and watching the doors, and when Phil wakes up, he’s himself again. Clint almost goes to his knees out of sheer gratitude; he actually feels the tension draining out of him in one energy sapping wave of relief.

There’s an awkward moment where a symphony should probably start playing but doesn’t and they just kind of gape at each other in an uneasy way, and then Clint forgets all about how much of a bad cliché it is, and vaults over the back of the sofa to launch himself into Phil’s arms. “Missed you,” he whispers against the collar bone he knows too well, “Missed you.”

Above him Phil nods, and Clint knows it’s a silent message between him and Natasha that means, “Glad you’re okay, see you later,” before Tash unobtrusively lets herself out. There’s a reason she’s Clint’s best friend. As soon as they don’t have an audience, Clint latches himself onto Phil’s mouth, kissing him like he wants to lick the taste from Phil’s skin.

Phil lets him, more than lets him, reciprocates eagerly, and it’s only when oxygen deprivation is becoming a real worry for them both that Clint finally lets him surface for air. Phil looks rumpled, particularly in the t-shirt and jeans that Clint knows he owns but rarely sees him in. Even off duty, Phil would rather wear slacks and a shirt, and lazy days mean sweats or pyjama pants, not jeans. Despite his attire and his lust blown eyes and kiss bitten mouth, he still looks more put together than Clint can even dream of being right now.

“We are going to have words later,” he says, absently, hands questing over Clint’s shoulders and chest, more exploratory than to arouse, as though he’s mapping every inch of Clint he might have forgotten.

“Hmm?” the archer asks, more interested in getting the button and fly on Phil’s jeans undone as quickly as possible.

“You. I. Words later. I remember everything, Barton.”

That rips Clint’s eyes up to meet his, devastation and guilt blooming in the blue depths, much more than the joking comment warranted. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry. Get me the forms and I’ll sign them. If I’d just been a bit more organised nothing would have-”

“Clint,” Phil soothes, looping one arm around his waist to pull his shuddering, and suddenly too tense, lover flush against him, and cupping Clint’s face gently with the other. “What do you think I’m talking about?”

Clint laughs bitterly. “Where would you like me to start? With the fact that I let your family nearly talk you out of being a SHIELD agent? The fact that I was _this_ fucking close to letting them, to walking out and leaving you there? That I couldn’t stop kid-you doing things I _knew_ would embarrass you? That I let Ross get his _hands on you_? That-”

“If memory serves, you didn’t let anyone do anything. I was rash and stupid and arrogant and you did the best you could.”

Clint’s lip twitches slightly, and Phil’s fingers leave his jaw, coming up to trace instead the blooming bruises still marring his skin around his eye and cheekbone. “We will however be talking about acceptable distraction techniques and why you using yourself as a punching bag is not one of them.”

Clint butts his face into the questing fingers, until what had been a feather light touch makes him gasp as the dull pain flares anew. Phil pulls his hand back sharply. “No, Clint. We are not going to do this. You don’t need to be punished, you did well. You didn’t even take a swing at Mike.”

Clint regards Phil coyly through his eyelashes. “Do you want me to? I can totally go back and take a swing at him if you want?”

“He’s my brother, Clint.”

“He’s a dick.”

“Yes, I know. But he’s my brother too. I might not like him, but I love him.”

“You shouldn’t let them treat you like that.”

Phil tenses, muscles twitching. “I’m sorry they were awful to you.”

Phil’s words do nothing to dim the protective urge in Clint’s chest. “It’s not about me,” he snaps. Then looks away, saying more than a little awkwardly, “Sorry, Phil. It’s not that I don’t like your family. It’s just…”

“That you don’t like my family?”

Clint stays silent. He’s pretty sure yes isn’t the right answer here.

Phil huffs a sigh that sounds like a laugh. “I’ll ring mom and speak to her. I was too young to realise at the time, but their actions were unacceptable. I want to be here, with you, and I want to be a SHIELD agent. You made the right call.”

“I almost didn’t,” Clint admits because he needs Phil to know that.

Phil doesn’t look bothered in the slightest, and though he could easily fake that, with his hands all over him, Clint can tell that there are no hidden twinges of muscle signifying tension and hurt. “But you did. I know what they said to you. I know what they implied. Anyone would have doubted, but you stayed anyway.”

A weight Clint hadn’t realised he’d been holding fell off his chest at the words, and he wriggled nearer to Phil, as though he wanted to climb into the other man’s skin and dropped his head back on his shoulder. It’s comfort and relief and home and reassurance and if it’s hiding the tears he doesn’t want Phil to see him shed well, that’s just good use of cover. Just like his handler taught him. “And I’m sorry I couldn’t stop you embarrassing yourself.”

Phil huffs that breathy laugh again. “From what I remember I would have been pretty hard to stop.”

Clint feels a grin tugging at his lips and keeps his face buried in Phil’s skin. “Yeah. Well. Highly trained agent.”

Phil ignores that. A hand ghosts up to the crown of Clint’s head and tugs at his hair, not hard enough to hurt, but insistent. Without recourse, Clint looks up, meeting Phil’s steady compassionate gaze. “I’m sorry I made you feel like second best.”

Clint knows he hasn’t done a good job of hiding the myriad of emotions when Phil’s face goes soft and gentle. “It’s fine,” he forces himself to say, memory of Phil’s ragged breathing and a gasped out name assaulting him.

“Clint, no,” Phil insists and there’s something urgent in his tone. “It’s…he’s Captain America.”

Clint turns his eyes away. “I know,” and there’s a bite to the words now, a jealously that’s never been there, even when they first dug Steve out and Phil spent three solid days sitting by his bedside.

“No,” Phil says firmly. “You don’t. He’s Captain America, he was my ultimate fantasy and, I know I-” the faintest of blushes crosses Phil’s cheeks and he shifts his gaze to the bridge of Clint’s nose so he can look at him dead on without having to meet his eyes. “I know you heard me-”

“It’s fine,” Clint repeats, dully, because he knows what Captain America means, has always meant, to Phil, but he doesn’t want to listen to Phil try and justify and just end up rubbing it in his face.

“It’s _not_ fine,” Phil snaps out, voice like a whip crack, and Clint instinctively straightens. Phil’s eyes are back on his, voice intense as he says again, “It’s not fine. He’s Captain America, he was only a _fantasy_ , and I was _twelve_ and _stupid_ , I indulged it.” He pauses, “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“It’s fine,” Clint says for a third time because what else can he say?

“No, Clint, you don’t understand. That night…I was only indulging my fantasy. I had a full blown crush on you. That’s why Mike and mom both got weird about you being in my room. They could tell I had feeling for you, and they weren’t sure if you’d see me as a child or as your partner.”

“You-”

“ _Yes_ ,” Phil breathes, and then, softer than breath, so soft, Clint’s almost sure he imagined it, adds, “Always.” There’s a long pause. Phil breaks it. “That’s what the whole showing you my Cap stuff was about. It’s something I know about. I wanted to impress you. I wanted you to stay and talk to me.”

Clint laughs but doesn’t have an answer. Instead, he kisses Phil again, firm enough that he’s almost surprised his split lip doesn’t reopen. “Phil?”

“Yeah?”

“You want to impress me?”

Phil catches the look in Clint’s eyes and answers with a tilt to the lips of his own. He pulls Clint back towards the bedroom. “Oh, I’ll impress you, agent Barton.”

Clint flutters his eyelashes ridiculously and saunters through the door, and behind him now, Phil’s expression darkens for just a second. First and foremost, he needs to make sure his archer understands what he means to Phil, but after that, there’s a conversation with his family that’s long overdue.

This time, he’s willing to give them the benefit of the doubt and trust that their inexperience with these kinds of things had led to the overreaction, but he’s an agent of SHIELD and there’s no guarantee this, or something similar, couldn’t happen again. And the next time someone hurts Clint like this, it will be over his dead body, family or not.

“Phil?” Clint sticks his head out of the door, the faintest hint of uncertainty that it wounds Phil deeply to know he himself put there in his eyes, “You coming?”

Phil musters up a smirk. “Not yet, Hawkeye,” his voice is laden with promise, “and I expect you to wait until I give you permission.”

Clint raises an eyebrow and gives a slow, lazy smile. “Do you? You’d best give me some incentive then. Sir.”

Phil surges forwards, grabs Clint’s arms and bites down on the tender flesh under his ear. He bites until Clint yelps with pain and then he sucks until Clint yelps for an entirely different reason and goes pliant in his arms, hips rocking needily against Phil’s thigh. “Good enough?”

“Gotta say, I like your recruitment tactics,” Clint somehow gasps out. “Dunno if I’m _impressed_ yet though.”

“Get on the bed then, agent Barton. Let me show you just how impressive I can be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, an apology that Coulson's family don't get the smack down they rightly deserve. I needed to keep them all in play for the third and final part of this series which will feature the revenge that we all so deeply want.
> 
> Secondly, I am about a third of the way through writing said part 3 and hope to be finished mid September early October. Would any fo you lovely people be willing/able to beta? It'll probably be the longest part of this series, somewhere around 25000 words.


End file.
